


Blue Highway

by AgentDianeEvans



Category: Twin Peaks, Twin Peaks Fire Walk with Me
Genre: Gen, blue rose case, plot resolution, sorry in advance, this probably hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6784651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentDianeEvans/pseuds/AgentDianeEvans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special Agent Stanley has been assigned to a new Blue Rose case, with instructions not to speak of what he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Highway

Nothing but open road for ninety-nine miles, long stretches of asphalt and metal mediums skip along the barren road. No turn offs, no exits. Just the sounds of rubber running against the pavement. He wasn’t quite sure why Gordon sent him on this road trip. Sam wasn’t a field agent; he spent his time in the lab or the office, he left the open road to the more experienced, more adventurous agents. But here he was, driving to some random small town on the east coast. His directions were cryptic but simple: to leave for this town, arrive there no later than 5pm. Go to some club called the ‘Blue Highway’ and wait, and then once he figured it out, he could leave, and he was not allowed to say anything.

Sam felt his face tense up a bit, his eyes blinking rapidly as he repeated the instructions to himself out loud. He had no idea if he was supposed to pick something up, look for something or someone. All Gordon said – rather yelled – was: ‘Get there, get yourself a drink, sit down, and wait.’ Sam sighed a bit, running a free hand over his face. He glanced around at the passing signs and smiled when his turn off came into view. He slowed his driving and gripped the steering wheel. Driving wasn’t always his favorite activity, another reason why he would much rather be in the office. He glanced at his passenger seat for the map and saw his destination was just up the road. The turn off ran him straight onto a dirt road, nothing but a few barns, a broken down general store, and a gas station. He slowed his driving considerably and finally found his destination. It looks like it was once a motel, but was now converted into the town’s watering hole.

Sam pulled into the lot and parked his car on the side. He glanced at his watch – 4:50 exactly. He had ten minutes. He rubbed his hands together anxiously and glanced into the rear view mirror at his appearance. His sandy blonde hair was sticking up, his eyes a little wild, but it would have to do. He straightened out his tie and left the car, locking the doors a few times and heading towards the bar.

The place was just like he thought it might be: a dimly lit smoky little joint with a bar and a tiny stage. He walked up to the bar and climbed onto the stool closest to the stage. Soon enough, the young man behind the bar walked over, placing a coaster in front of him.

‘Hey there, what can I get ya?’

‘Um, yes, hello there, I’d just like some ice water and coffee if that’s at all possible?’

The bartender smiled kindly and nodded. ‘Sure thing. You here for work or something?’

Sam smiled, fiddling with the coaster. ‘Uh, well, yes.’

The young man nodded and walked away, and was back moments later with a beer glass full of water and a mason jar of coffee.

‘Sorry about the non-traditional drink ware. We don’t usually get coffee drinkers.’

Sam smiled and shook his head. ‘No, no, I very much appreciate it.’ The bartender nodded and walked over to another customer roaming in.

Sam swiveled on his seat and glanced around the place, his mind taking inventory of everyone and everything there. He glanced at his watch: 5pm exactly. He was shaken from his thoughts when he heard feed-back from a microphone. The small crowd, including himself, turned their attention to a middle aged man in a cowboy hat standing on the stage.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! We got a real treat for ya tonight: a traveling blues singer who hasn’t graced a stage like this in quite some time. So let’s give a nice welcome to Mr. Johnny Blue!’ He waved his hands and there was a short and polite round of applause.

The lights dimmed and Sam found himself moving even closer to the stage. A gentle blue light covered the floor and a man walked across the stage with an old guitar. He kept his head down until he sat on the little stool left for him by the announcer. There was a quiet shuffling and he struck a chord and looked up.

Sam was sure he stopped breathing for a minute. He was completely positive that his heart skipped a beat and he felt a little faint. He thought he was seeing a ghost. The man on that stool is supposed to be dead. His body was never found. Nothing. That man on the stool, who was singing such heartbreaking music and playing a guitar, was such a strong and skillful hands was pronounced MIA by the FBI. His name isn’t Johnny Blue.

That was Chet Desmond.

Sam’s eyes began to blink rapidly and he reached into his pocket for his glasses. He slid them onto his face quickly and studied the man on stage. He was wearing a beautifully tailored red suit and cowboy boots. Sam leaned closer and noticed that on his lapel was a pin of a tiny blue rose.

Now, there was no mistaking it: that was absolutely Chet Desmond. The strong jaw, the muscled arms, the icy blue eyes. And his voice, that deep booming that Sam would recognize anywhere. A voice that haunts the office hallways, a sound that makes his hands twitch a little more, his breathing speed up a little. Sam studied him further: it was almost as if time never reached him. It wouldn’t surprise him to believe that he fought time and won.

This is why Gordon sent him on this mission, just to show him that his former partner was alive. But he couldn’t believe it. And he knew he couldn’t say anything to him or ask him any questions. He was told to go, see, and leave once he figured it out, but he felt himself stuck on that bar stool. He wanted to make himself known. He wanted Chet to know that he was there and that there wasn’t a moment that went by that Sam wasn’t thinking of him, wasn’t wondering about him. There were nights he stayed up trying to figure out the mystery of where he could have gone. Sam hasn’t really slept since the night Chet went missing. It always seemed like such a frivolous thing to do when someone so important was missing.

Sam sat there and listened to every heartbreaking blues song he sang, each one about another lonely night, another highway, new towns, new faces, and never really feeling at home. Sam felt his own heart ache for him. He had no idea how or when he got to this town, and why he decided to do music. And of course, these weren’t things he could ask.

After at least an hour, Sam felt as though he couldn’t take much more. He glanced at the bartender and placed a few bucks on the counter, smiled, and waved goodbye politely. After a few steps, the bartender called him back.

‘Before you go, take this.’ He handed Sam a small piece of folded paper, looking at Sam rather seriously.

Sam nodded quickly and secured the paper in his pocket before walking out quickly, only chancing one final glance at the man on the stage; the lighting had changed just slightly enough to make it seem as though he was glowing. Sam got out to his car and sat, putting his head in his hands for a moment before taking a deep breath and pulling out the piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly, his hand shaking.

The penmanship was unmistakably Chet’s: a slight scrawl with a lean, A, O, and Y's all loopy and pushed together. He closed his eyes a moment and then read the note.

          _**‘Rest easy now Stanley, rest easy. I’m always thinkin' of you too.**_

**_Yours, S.A. C.D.'_ **

Sam let his fingers twitch against the pen marks. Maybe he was making all of this up. Some kind of grand illusion. Some kind of new training they’re putting agents through to see how tough they are. He read the note again and again. He read it enough so that when he neatly tucked it away in his coat pocket and started the drive home, he could repeat it to himself.

And as he hit that stretch of long, endless highway he found is heart fluttering, his mind reeling, but something inside of him was at peace now. Maybe he would rest easy, as long as he kept the memory of the handsome man on stage singing the blues.


End file.
